


the force that drives the flower

by fishcola



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Altered Mental States, Bondage, Canon-Typical Daddy Kink, Consensual Somnophilia, Developing Relationship, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Sex Pollen, dubcon, one mention of puking in passing that does not happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: or,Always Read The Placard, You Dumbassthe hazards of spontaneous botanical tourism are myriad.
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	the force that drives the flower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> RPF disclaimer: fake sex fantasies fake events fake characters fake botany real names. don't read, and if you do read my heavens don't tell anyone about it. (except me, in comments :D)
> 
> this is for **spacegirl** \-- it was your prompt, my dear, and I started it first but thought that in the end cute cuddly werewolves was a better candlenights present than weird fuckplants. but now spring is coming on, and here we are.
> 
> with great thanks to **wenandwhere** who took a beta look at it at that all-important 3/4-done moment :))
> 
> warning: everything is pretty consensual for a fish fic, but it's pretty fucked up in the sex-pollen-dubcon way, including some somno, so if that's not your thing skip this one.

> _The force that through the green fuse drives the flower  
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees  
Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose  
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever._
> 
> \- [poem by Dylan Thomas](https://poets.org/poem/force-through-green-fuse-drives-flower)

* * *

##  **4:20pm, Room 11, Super 7 Inn, Calico Ridge, MO**

Pat’s trussed up _ properly _ this time, one hand to each bedpost—the tow straps are rough and a little too short, but what can you do? At least it’s better than trying to tie a knot in jumper cables. The check-in lady probably thought she was doing Brian a favor, upgrading them to a room with a king bed—and it’s too late _ now _to change rooms, so Pat’s gotta just deal with the fact that the bed’s a little too wide, even for his long limbs, that he’s stretched, drawn out so he can’t lie down properly, at least not without a heap of pillows underneath him. 

Brian doesn’t have a heap of pillows, though, just the two crummy motel ones. Even those aren’t working well—he can’t get them to stay under Pat’s straining back, because of the bucking and wriggling and how Brian can’t get too close. 

Goddammit, Pat is flexible, and it’s more than once that he kicks out with a long slim leg and gets Brian in the chest, the hip, or even curls all the way around his waist and drags him in. It’s not _ too _hard to wrestle away, but the effort makes him flushed and flustered and seems to exhaust Patrick, too. 

“I wish you’d let me make you comfortable,” he laments, touching Pat’s ankle lightly and trying to rub a soothing circle on it. It kicks away, though, and there’s no point talking either. Pat’s lost to the world and just staring with big sad wide eyes, hungry and thoughtless and fraught with something that’s kind of like pain. 

“_Fuck._” Brian sighs, and takes a seat, and pulls out his phone to fiddle on, to google for more help. “I really don’t like this plan, Pat. I don’t like it at all.” 

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##  _12:15pm, I-70 West, somewhere past St. Louis_

It’s Pat that suggested the road trip. They’ve both got vacation days to burn—and a few days of filming work in Chicago—and then Brian’s cousin’s wedding in Denver—which honestly he’d almost been too afraid to ask Pat to come to—he’d floated the idea light and easy and ready for him to deflect with a joke— 

but Pat Gill is, though only a month in, a surprising delight. He just quirked half-a-smile and said _ sure, do I have to buy a suit? _

It’s a goofy idea, driving between, but Pat has childhood nostalgia for road trips, so he wistfully floats a silly idle thought, and Brian’s the sort of person who’s never met a silly idle thought he didn’t want to grab and pretty up and take to a dance. Especially when it puts that kind of smile on Pat’s face, batting it around, thinking about what car snacks are essential (Combos and Slim Jims, apparently) and if they’d trade off to drive and whether Pat has the same feelings as Laura on the matter of Brian’s bare feet on the dashboard. (Negative, for the record.) Jokes become imagining and imagining becomes planning and then it’s just Brian’s job to turn to Pat and say, _ hey, do you actually want to do this? Because I super want to do this, _and watch his smile illuminate his face in unshielded delight. 

Pat plans the route and the snacks, but it’s Brian that makes them stop at every weird little roadside attraction and cave, at every _ world’s biggest whatever _and instagrammable art installation, every classy-ass tourist trap hawking kitschy knick knacks and t-shirts made in China but stiff with Americana anyway. 

Somewhere in the middle of the drive—it might be Kansas, but it still might be Missouri; Brian fell asleep an hour out of St. Louis—they see a sign for _ Doctor Covington’s Conservatory of the Exotic, _so Brian blinks the drowsiness out of his eyes and gets ready to make a case. 

“Paa_aat _—” 

“Brian.” 

Pat’s voice is short but he’s doing a shit job at stifling a smile. He knows his part in the bit. 

“Papa,” Brian tries out his British accent. “May we _ please _go to the conservatory?” 

He snorts. “Is it far out of the way?” 

Brian’s ready for that one. “I can’t find it on maps. Or yelp. So we _ have _to go. We can be the first reviews.”

Pat rolls his eyes. “So it’s gonna be like the crystal museum, then?”

The crystal museum, which was _ fifty whole miles _ off the road, turned out to not be open on Wednesdays except by appointment, and Pat blushed red as a beetroot when Brian instantly whipped out his phone to call the number for someone named Tiger; someone who answered in a gruff voice and said _ aw sure, jest gimme a minute to walk over from ‘roun’ main street and I’ll give you the ter. _

“That was worth it,” Brian declares. “That tourmaline was _ sick.” _

“I absolutely veto anywhere without a website. They need to have _ hours _ at least. Please.” 

“They do! Kind of, it seems like it’s seasonal—” 

“Oh god,” Pat groans, longsuffering, reaches up to brush his hair away from his cheeks. “Fuck me, the exit’s coming up. Are you really making us do this?” 

“Pat it’s _ exotic. _ And it’s a _ conservatory _. How can you resist a conservatory?” 

“Sounds like a good place to get murdered with a candlestick,” Pat mutters, fake-sullen as he pulls off the freeway toward their next adventure. 

Brian sneaks a hand gently onto his knee and squeezes, as he drives. “You’re gonna love it,” he says, instead of _ thank you. _

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##  **4:35pm**

The painful waiting lasts, oh, all of fifteen minutes before Pat’s just too gosh darn _ loud _to be ignored. 

“I can’t Pat, I can’t,” Brian says, and hops on the bed, tries to shove Pat down enough to straddle his legs. They’re kicking, flailing, but Pat’s whimpering so bad at this point that he doesn’t seem like he can put up much of a fight. “What if you get _ hurt _, Pat? I can’t. Just let me—and then we’ll talk about it.” 

His hand snakes around Pat’s cock firmly. It's angry red—almost purple—and throbbing hard. Pat _ screeches _ and comes after a few quick jerks, comes with tears in his eyes and murmuring something unintelligible that resolves into _ thank you thank you oh god thank you. _

Patrick’s whole body goes slack, loose, spent; a crumpled doll. He pants helplessly for near a minute, hair soaked with sweat. 

He finally draws a stuttering breath and looks up, red-eyed. “Okay,” he rasps. “So, my—my plan was shitty. What is it exactly that you want to do.” 

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##  _ 1:15 pm, Doctor Covington’s Conservatory of the Exotic, well off the I-70 West _

It’s not fifty miles off, but it’s pretty far. The “conservatory” is really more of a mansion—or at least a beautiful old house, with a few acres of land in pleasantly domesticated wild country, a few miles away from a sleepy tiny unincorporated town. The building appeals to Brian’s Southern aesthetics, in a sort of disorganized way: redbrick chimneys and white columns, wrought-iron panels of dusky glass and windows with old-school shutters—old money fancy with a hodgpodge of renovations over time.

They wend up one of those long-ass driveways that shows off the grounds (statues, hedges, a stone fountain, a thingie—pagoda? is that the word for it?) and doesn’t even get you all the way up to the house. Everything’s kept and gardened but not _ crisply _in the way Scottish garden houses were. It doesn't, like, look abandoned...but if it were nighttime and you put up some pumpkins and gravestones, it would make a bangin’ haunted house. It looks like the kind of place where you end up when your great-great-great-uncle-twice-removed died and left you money, except you have to come to the reading of the will in person, and also oh hey it’s at midnight. 

They pull off into the little gravelled lot—there’s only one other car, an old clunker, but next to it is a clean green-and-white sign labelled SPRING: TOURS START FROM LOBBY HOURLY 10-4. Brian points it out. 

“Oh thank god,” Pat sighs. “Now all we have to worry about is plantation ghosts.” 

Brian wrinkles his nose. “D’you think Dr. Covington’s _ that _old?” 

Pat shrugs and hops out, leads them on up to the house. 

It’s not crowded but it's also not haunted. A perfectly nice man with a deep drawl is at the front desk. He offers a tour, but he also offers just to let them wander—they take that option, of course, and ol’ Grant or whatever his name was seems pretty pleased about that so he can go back to noodling around on his smartphone. 

(_“Are you playing Picross?” _ Brian can’t help leaning over to ask, when he sees the little white grid. He’s not, it’s Sudoku, but he gives Brian the name of the app anyway in some bemusement even though it doesn’t seem like he knows what _ ‘an idle game connoisseur _’ means.) 

The grounds are awesome_: _a crazy maze of hip-sized hedges (fab for selfies!), a cool fountain, lots of native plants to look at with their little garden labels. It’s the best kind of museum—no one around to stare at you doing weird shit—why have security guards, what are you gonna break? Even Brian can’t break a tree. 

The greenhouse and the inner rooms are, apparently, where the _ exotics _are, according to their brochure. Dr. Covington, plant doctor, loved growing weird tropical stuff from all around the world and he has “the greatest collection of diverse unstudied species in the midwest.” Brian would bet that no one’s coming out here to this little town with one church and one-and-a-half schools to check, but he’ll buy into the hype. They save the greenhouse for last.

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##  **5:10pm**

They don’t have time to get philosophical, because soon Pat’s eyes are closed and he’s taking deep, shuddered breaths through his mouth instead of trying to find ways to argue. Brian takes that as his cue to get his boxers off.

It’s gonna be easier this second time. Brian's already fucked open and there's no need for fingering; he just coats Pat’s cock with slick, lets himself be rough, urgent, lets the urgency thrill him toward excitement. The lube's cold, but Brian doubts Pat could lose his boner from just that, not in the state he’s in. Plus, the little wail, the whimpered _ fuck! _assuages Brian, makes him feel like somewhere, under there, Pat is listening. 

“I’m gonna ride you ‘til you come twice, daddy,” he murmurs, kissing up Pat’s chest as he positions himself. The body stretched below him gives a broken sound and tries to buck. “Or three times, even. Let’s tire you the fuck out.” 

Brian’s not _ too _ vain, but he thinks he’s okay at sex; he understands pacing, flow, how to tease. He doesn’t get much of a chance this time, though—it’s only the space of moments between the first glorious oh-god-too-much moments of Pat’s cock inside him and the snap of Pat’s hips in eager desperation. He bottoms out in only two thrusts and Brian _ howls _and digs his fingers into Pat’s hips hard enough to bruise, for sure for sure, Pat is easy to bruise. 

The pause that earns him is only momentary. Even with no leverage Pat is working himself into a frenzy, kicking up into Brian’s ass hard and without finesse. It’s rough and tumble and Brian kinda loves it, even when it hits the angles wrong, jabs something, makes him moan. 

It’s so unlike him. Pat’s never ever ever careless, he treats Brian like a sweet and delicate thing, reverent that he gets to touch. He calls Brian beautiful. Pat can spend an hour just ghosting fingers over his skin, sucking him off, carding his fingers over every sensitive place and asking gentle, quiet, _ how does that feel? _

Brian loves being worshipped. He loves that his scruffy roguish boyfriend takes things so sweet and slow. But also, uh, he kinda likes to get _ railed _, and this is definitely cracking into his dark desires, the ones he's kept carefully shelved for later, later, when the relationship is mellowed and comfortable and they've done all the normal things and moved on to touching without astonishment and sleeping together in ratty pajamas.

_ Jiminy friggin' Christmas _ though, does Pat have a—a nice dick and—_fuck _if Brian hasn't been fantasizing about—_fuck__—__!_

It’d be unbearable, the pace, if it weren’t also over quickly. Soon Pat is yelping through his orgasm, biting off a scream as Brian digs himself down and takes it. 

Once they’ve settled a little, once the cock stops welling and throbbing, Brian leans forward to kiss the tears off Patrick’s cheeks. 

_ I’m sorry _ is probably the sentence he kisses out of Pat’s mouth, but by the time they break apart it’s smoothed out a little with tenderness and has coalesced to “Are you all right?” 

“Mmm, not yet daddy,” Brian grins and grinds his hips in a slow circle where they meet. It’s not hard to dismiss any inkling of a wince, and focus on the bright point of want in his chest. “I’m gonna need more than that to come. I think I can come untouched. Just from your good good dick.” 

“_Fuck, _Brian.” Pat throws his head back and gives a low, guttural snarl. Brian knows that sound. That's not part of this whole thing, no symptom of altered physiology or unknown chemical interactions. That’s Pat, through and through. 

“That’s the idea,” he says primly, and grinds again. “You fuck me until I get off. Okay?” 

Pat’s body shudders but his eyes glimmer a bit, exhausted and amused and horny. “Am _ I _ fucking _ you _? ‘Cause from here it looks like you’re—well, you’re using me to get off.” 

“You’re a very talkative dildo,” Brian murmurs, drags up his hand and curls it around Pat’s neck, feels the tendons there. 

“God,” Pat sighs, drops his head back, closes his eyes. His hair’s pooled on the pillow in stringy strands and his face has moved from hot flushed red to pale, so his freckles stand out. What fucking cheekbones that man has; what Brian did to deserve them, he’ll never figure out. “I’m sorry I can’t—that I keep going crazy. I just want you so bad.” 

“Well, you’ve got me,” Brian says, and bends over carefully for a kiss. “We’ll fuck this devil out of you yet.” 

“What an exorcism,” Pat groans to the ceiling, as Brian starts to roll his hips again. 

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##  _2:20pm, in the greenhouse_

The greenhouse is warm and lush, with an impressive array of climbing vines and shiny leaves. There’s a little area devoted to carnivorous plants, and another for plants that curl up when you touch them (TOUCH GENTLY, the sign says). 

Once they’ve traipsed through the warm wet air for some time, Pat suggests they go to find some lunch—it’s well past time for it—but Brian jabs at the map and points out the last few plant rooms on the first floor. They could skip it, but hell, when are they ever gonna be back here in bumblefuck, Missouri, looking at weird plants? Brian wants to see the orchid room, sectioned off in an interior wing with big bay windows. 

Pat honestly ignores the orchids, but takes a shine to the collection of “rare-pollinators,” flowers that exist to tempt lizards and rabbits and other non-bees. They’re fairly boring colors, for the most part—a few reds, but largely plain green—but the shapes and the _ smells _are weird, from an unassuming green bud that is unsettlingly meaty to a weird little saucer-shaped flower that Pat thinks smells like ketchup.

Brian’s trying to get his face close enough to the ketchup-flower to offer his opinion, when behind him, Pat sneezes. 

“Bless you,” Brian sing-songs, and then again, when there’s another sniffle and sneeze in quick succession. 

“This is shit for my allergies,” Pat declares, stuffy-sour. “Let’s get out of here.” He’s got a right to be hangry, Brian figures, and doesn’t hold his shortness against him. 

“Sure thing! You want one last selfie for the road?” 

“No,” Pat grunts, and grabs the hand in which Brian is brandishing his camera teasingly. His fingers wrap Brian’s wrist, overlarge for the task as always, and give a little tug to lead him. “C’mon. Let’s go.” 

“All right, all right,” Brian hums, rolling his eyes but not saying anything. Pat isn’t a pictures person. He had to be talked into even instagram _ stories _, and yet he’s been patiently indulging Brian’s whims all trip without too much— 

_ ow, _though, jeez, Pat, no need to be a dick— 

Brian yanks his hand away with a frown and pockets his phone, refusing to be pulled out of the room. The brief beat of frustration fades in about five seconds—Pat’s been a real good sport about this weird diversion, and the whole trip. If he’s finally gotten road trip cranky that just makes some good darn sense. No one’s patience is infinite. 

They head out into the hallway—_one _ of the hallways, gosh, this mansion’s so friggin’ big, it must be like thirty rooms in total, there are _ multiple _hallways even just on the first floor—“How many people do you think it ta—_ a—oh! _”

Mid-idle question, Pat puts a hand on Brian’s chest and presses him back, so he stumbles, square into the wall.

It's uh, a surprise. Pat's staring so hard he’s almost _ glaring_, mouth a serious, set line. 

“Oh my god do I have a bug on me,” Brian freezes. Heck. Hopefully it isn’t some kind of very large exotic jumping spider. “Oh my god don’t tell me. Just get it off—”

Then Pat kisses him. Phew, what a relief. Patrick’s not much for public displays of affection, and Brian hardly thinks a big scary spider would sweeten the deal on that one. 

It’s a good kiss, deep and probing, the kind that’s too horny for romantic comedies, the kind where you have to start rationing your breath. Brian hums in surprised delight, lets himself shiver at the brush of Pat’s scruff, lets his eyes flutter closed. Pat continues, relentless, sucking at Brian’s lip a good long while before he pulls back, presses their foreheads together, breathes hot and heavy on Brian’s face. 

“Oy papi, what’s got into _ you _,” Brian flutters his eyelashes. 

“Don’t know,” Pat says gruffly, then noses Brian’s head to the side with force so he can _ lick his face. _

“Oh my God Pat we are in pu-_ublic__, _ ” Brian gasps as this rather obscene gesture is coupled with Pat popping the button on the front of his jeans. “You are _ not _allowed to—”

—ooh baby, but it’s hard to protest when Pat’s looking soooo fucking dark and wicked, and his hands are _ everywhere, _ reaching right into Brian’s pants and edging around his hip to grip at his ass. Brian knows the sound he makes is a pathetic little breathy whine, but it’s not a _ yelp _so he thinks his self-restraint is admirable, thanks. 

Pat’s hands are so fucking big. He can get such a big fucking chunk of Brian’s ass, grip it so hard he’s almost lifting it, draw their hips together even tighter so Brian can feel a bulge against his hip. 

“Jesus, Pat,” Brian breathes, and it’s honest admonishment and also honest delight. Macking on your boyfriend in a public place is not polite, but it’s always nice to feel _ desired, _ and also Brian’s been hounding Pat to be more confident, more assertive, maybe even a little _ wild _… 

When Pat’s other hand starts unbuttoning his shirt, Brian squeaks and tries to bat him away. “Well I _ do _declare, Pat Gill,” he lilts, the hook for some plantation belle joke— 

but Pat pins his wrist next to his head and captures his mouth again, and he doesn’t get to finish it. 

Oh _ fuck, _ he is being _ very _thoroughly groped right now, and though Pat’s whole body is slim and strong and talented, Brian doesn’t want that crusty old docent from the front desk to catch them when he’s on his rounds. He might get the wrong idea. 

“C’mon, Pat,” he gets out, when Pat lets him up for air and switches to sucking a hickey on his neck that, hey, is gonna _ really _be annoying to hide. “Let’s take this to the bathroom at least…?” 

Pat catches his gaze then. His pupils are fucking _ blown. _Something prickles in Brian’s stomach, burns. “Brian?” he rasps. 

“What?” Brian blinks. “C’mon, tiger, let’s get over here—”

He tugs himself loose with a little effort, rubs his hip up against Pat’s hardon for good measure. The bathroom’s like, the next next door—he pushes it open and leads them inside. There’s a sink and a claw-footed tub in here, and it’s plenty of space, and Brian flings himself up against the wall and flips his hair. “There we go, daddy-o. Ravage away.” 

Pat takes that directive fairly fucking _ seriously _ , holy shit. He literally pops off Brian’s buttons, ripping his shirt open, gets his huge fucking palms all over Brian’s chest and _ squeezes _ his pecs like he’s— _ fuck _— 

He’s _ biting _ into Brian’s tits, hand sliding down to grip his ass, sucking his nipple so hard that Brian moans, and then he really _ does _squeal in shock and desire when Pat’s broad fingertip brushes into his ass crack. Oh my friggin god, he hopes the sound doesn’t echo up the weird slanted ceiling and through the old-fashionedy metal pipes up to the bed & breakfast rooms above. If there’s anyone in there to bother, anyway.

“You’re _ crazy _,” he stutter-gasps, and then realizes the tone’s a little too short with breathy surprise and amends. “I like it though. What d’you wanna do?” 

“Not sure,” Pat nearly _ moans _ into his neck, where he’s sucking in a dark hungry bruise that’s certainly gonna be fucking visible unless Brian pops his collar like a lunatic. “Just— _ please _—Brian—” 

“Let me suck you off,” Brian gets his own hands into the mix now, pushing Pat off with one and permitting himself the indulgence of tugging at his hair. It makes Pat whimper, like always, although this time he nearly nuzzles into his hand as well. “I’ll make you feel so good. And maybe you can take out some of that toppy energy you’re crackin with right now, ‘cause hoo boy it’s _ very _sexy.” 

“Okay,” Pat groans, and pulls back both hands to Brian’s shoulders, and presses him down to the floor. 

Brian isn’t like, an expert at sex with Pat yet—they’ve done plenty of handjobs and blowjobs, but Bri’s the first guy Pat’s ever dated and they’ve mostly been taking it slow—this is _ anything _ but slow, though, as Pat forces down his zipper and gets out his dick and feeds its entire hard veiny length into Brian’s mouth in one sharp go. 

He gags only a little—just a little swallowed sound—and fuck, it’s filthy and forceful and _ good_, the salt-slime of precome and the heaviness on his tongue, the musky smell and how Pat’s huge hands tangle in his hair. They’re so fucking stupid big, and rarely does he— 

_god _it’s all Brian can do to hang on, stay slack-jawed and soft-cheeked and open and willing as Pat fucks in hard— 

he never grips like this, spans Brian’s head from ear to crown, fucking _ drives _him, immobile, in whatever rhythm he likes. Pat’s usually— 

_ oh shit _it makes the tears prick, how the fat wet tip of Pat’s substantial dick hammers into his desperately willing mouth. It’s fucking hot as hell, and Pat’s usually gentle which is also hot, but Brian’s been begging for something rougher and today he’s getting it and it’s not even his birthday— 

“You’re gorgeous,” Pat gruffs out, barely coherent, and Brian remembers he’s supposed to be trying to look cute, to blink up through wet lashes with wide eyes and look wanton and horny— 

fuck if there’s time for that though, cause Pat’s damn near done and using Brian’s whole head to cushion his great shuddering thrusts. Brian needs to concentrate on staying good and wet and open and not fucking up Pat’s newfound commitment to topping with an unfortunate puking session. He does _ not _want to puke into this coppery claw-footed bathtub, no thanks, that seems like a cleanup nightmare.

Pat comes with a primal shout, half-bitten off at the end as if he just remembered where he was, that he was basically in _ public_, that they didn’t even fucking stop to shut the _ door _— 

comes down Brian’s throat hard and bitter and pulses through a sob of need that calls Brian to suck and suck until he’s quivering with overstimulation. 

“Oh my god,” Pat gasps, as soon as he can speak, which is quite a few moments later, after Brian has already pulled off smug and wiped his lips with the back of his hand and gotten up from his knees. “I’m _ so _sorry. I just—”

“Don’t you _ dare _ apologize, Pat Gill,” Brian grins, trying for a seductive purr but ending up with more like a rasping grin. “That was hot as shit. You were _ insatiable. _” 

Pat buries his head in his hand, cheeks alit with flame. “Your voice—” he groans, and flinches as Brian touches him, gently tucking him back in and zipping him up. “I’m a goddamn monster. I just couldn’t resist.” 

“Mmm, tell me more about how I’m _ so _pretty,” Brian bats his eyelashes, before he flips around to bend over the sink and swish a quick swallow of water in his mouth. 

Pat curls up against his back, presses the long trembling length of himself up close, wraps a sinewy forearm around to button up Brian’s shirt as best he can. “You’re gorgeous,” he mumbles. His hands halt halfway, thumb up Brian’s jugular to brush lightly at a mark there. “Jesus Christ. You look—” 

“—_real _ fucked up,” Brian grins with relish into the mirror. Pat’s eyes are still dark and a little jittery, like they might be close to welling with tears. Gosh, he’s really—something must be _ up _with him, something Brian’ll need to probe, to make sure it’s not—regret at the trip, or nerves at meeting his folks, or something darker. Lord knows Brian's jumped into sexy stuff and then pulled back, pumped the breaks, before. Maybe he'll have to reassure—maybe they should just take it easy, stop in Kansas City for the night, not focus hard on making good time. 

Pat finishes buttoning his collar up with trembling fingers. Brian’s hand trails up immediately to undo the top button, then squeezes Pat’s hand reassuringly. 

“What if someone _ sees_,” Pat murmurs into Brian’s neck, where he’s taking a deep, anchoring breath of Brian’s hair. 

“Eh, there’s like ten people in this whole village. It’ll give them a good story for the next town hall.” 

Pat groans but lets himself be pulled by the hand, out of the bathroom and back into the hallway. 

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##  **around 7:00pm**

Three orgasms in succession buys them more time, it seems—almost a half-hour, enough that Pat can get untied and drink some water and curl in on himself while Brian holds him tight. He’s too exhausted to feel guilty, maybe, or the endorphins have stampeded through and ground out anything but spacey affection. 

“Did that feel good?” Brian dares to ask, squeezing Pat’s arms. “Or did it just hurt.”

“Yes.” Pat shifts a bit. “To both. Fuck, you feel—you feel _ incredible. _It’s incredible. I haven’t ever—” his breath catches. “God, I’m sorry I—” 

Brian kisses into him, gently, but lingering enough to interrupt that sentence, to slow him. Now’s not the time for heartbreaking confessions. Pat’s in an altered state, rubbed raw and desperate for anything that resembles relief. Brian’s sure he could pin his oft-taciturn boyfriend to the wall right now and extract from him a frantic upwelling of words, answers to absolutely any question ruthless curiosity can manufacture. His shame-faced kinks, his break-up stories, what he longs for, what he’s afraid of. Brian could cheat code this relationship right to year two right now, instead of month two, and fuck if it isn’t tempting—he always wants to dig in fast and hard and with his whole damn heart. 

But Pat deserves to be treated carefully. It’s not hard to know that if you push too hard he’ll crack. 

Brian kisses sweetly, and Pat’s mouth grows hot and hungry under him, breaths and soft sounds just shy of moans. When Pat grips him, flips them over, Brian likes to imagine that he’s at least _ partly _the cause of this mounting enthusiasm—along with any other force, natural or supernatural.

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##  _2:40pm _

The carpet’s dark red velvet, and Brian found it lavish when they were starting the tour but upon second glance it’s faded and a little moth-eaten. He pauses on the way back to the entryway, eye caught by a little statuette. It’s in a collection of Greek busts, but it’s pale green jade instead of marble, which has an interesting East-West flair he didn’t notice on the way in. He figures there should really be a placard somewhere explaining what’s up; every other art piece is thoroughly labeled—so he searches for a few seconds along the dark mahogany baseboards and old school black lacy wallpaper until Pat touches the small of his back. 

“Can we _ please _go,” he says, fingers stroking along Brian’s spine as if to tap out the message by telegram. “I’m feeling sick.” 

Brian giggles, because his brain considers the possibility that maybe Pat just gets _ really really horny _whenever he’s sick. Then he realizes, holy shit that laugh would seem mean if you didn’t live in Brian’s brain, and turns, apologetic. “Here. Lemme see if you have a fever.” 

He touches Pat’s forehead, and it _ is _hot, but not crazy—hard to tell if it’s unnatural or it’s just the pink-cheeked vigour of getting it on in a public bathroom. 

When he starts to pull away, Pat grabs his wrist, keeps his hand there, brushing up against the side of his face. He turns just slightly, breathes into Brian’s palm a deep, shuddering, steadying breath as if he’s struggling with a lurch of nausea. 

“Jeez Pat, are you gonna faint?” Brian bites his lip nervously. “You don’t look so good. Your eyes are—” 

the grip is so goddamn tight, and there’s that arm around his waist again—

“—weird and hey, what are you—” 

the forearm _ shoves _him forward, collapses the distance between them so they’re pressed together again, and Brian can’t suck a breath before he’s being kissed again. He’s a fan, of Pat’s probing-tongue forceful whiskered kisses, but he likes to have oxygen in his lungs to enjoy them, so he tries to pull back— 

the arm around his waist is steely, and he can’t really break the grip—he can twist and roll out of it though, pulling to the side and stepping away with a slightly-annoyed huff. “C’mon, Pat, you can’t be serious—” 

“Brian,” Pat says again, in that same pained whine. “Something’s wrong .” 

It stirs something in Brian, how fucking awful his voice sounds, how wretched, and how starving, and then— 

Pat hitches Brian’s arm up behind his back and presses him against the wall face-first, bracketing his hips with his own long legs and driving their bodies together. 

“Please, Pat, cut it out,” Brian says, in a voice that’s really, _ really _no longer a joke. 

Pat doesn’t respond though, or let up his pressing, or give any indication that he cares how this looks, how it’ll look, if someone walks down this hall and finds him humping into Brian’s back, pulling sharply downward at Brian’s jeans as if they could slide off without being unbuttoned. 

“_STOP, _ Pat,” Brian grunts, a little louder, uses his free arm to push against the wall and get some space, that’s immediately crushed out of him by Pat’s weight. “What the _ fuck_.” 

“Aw shit,” a voice comes from down the hall, the dusky sound of that old straw-chewing docent from the front desk. _ Fuck_. Jig’s up. 

But Pat doesn’t let go, even as Brian turns his head to see the guy staring at them openly, looking horrified. Oh jeez, please please please be a cool rural Missourian who’s not gonna— 

“_GREG! _ ” the guy yells, breaking into a full _ run _ right toward them. “_WE GOT ANOTHER—GET IN HERE AND BREAK THESE TWO APART!” _

Pat’s com_pletely _ unperturbed by all this chaos, which puts enough fear into Brian’s blood for one last herculean push and twist. He gets them both off the wall, though Pat’s still got his arm in a death grip, and Brian's throat is gritty but panting with fevered apologies. “Look—uh—sir—we are _ so _sorry—” 

Pat growls at the change in position and pushes— 

the guy tackles him—fucking _tackles _him—a good square high school football tackle, and he’s shorter than Pat but stockier and he got his shoulder in the right place so it takes the wind right out of him and gets them both on the floor. 

“Please!” Brian squeaks as soon as he has the breath to do it. “Please don’t—we’re not—we’re _ so _sorry—”

Someone, presumably Greg—a young kid who’s maybe a senior in high school but with broad shoulders and thick arms—emerges, looking keyed up and also a bit guilty. He brushes right past Brian without a word and grab’s Pat’s legs, where he’s kicking and jerking and trying to get free. 

“_NO! __Please, _don’t hurt him,” Brian cries out, and he’s on the floor too, on his knees, trying to get the guy who’s currently driving his whole weight into Pat’s back through his knees to please please let up, please— 

“Don’t worry son,” the gruff mustachioed guy says. “We got ‘im. hang on just a tick.” 

This is hardly comforting. Greg, whoever he is, has rope in his hands, is fighting with Patrick's feet. Pat’s yelping and grunting in pain and anger, and kicking out so hard Brian’s somehow both worried for him and worried he’s gonna hurt one of these two strangers. 

“Please stop,” Brian sobs, and realizes he really _ is _crying, the fear and worry and adrenaline of—

and whatever's gotten into Pat and—

and what are they _doing_— 

the guy's got Pat's ankles tied now, is working on his knees—

Pat's yelping like an _animal_— 

it's all, it just, it jerks wet sobs of panic out of Brian as he flutters at the old guy's arm, begs. “Please. we’ll go. Please don’t hurt us. He didn’t mean it. He’s sick, he’s—” 

“I know, son,” the guy says, stands and brushes his grey hair out of his eyes, damp with sweat. Pat’s wrists are tied behind him too, and he’s fighting against them, wringing his arms and making white lines against his skin. “Not his fault. Not yourn either. This happens round here if _ someone _ —” he narrows his eyes at the crouching Greg, who’s got a hand on Pat’s back and hunched shoulders. “—forgets to cork the soonga-yin before we have visitors _ . _” 

“I’m _ sorry _,” Greg whines miserably. “I was just watering it and—” 

“Don’t say sorry to me, young man,” the guy growls. “Say sorry to this fella, whose friend just—whoa, now, it’s all right—”

Brian’s crying, bawling actually, big wet tears that roll down his cheeks and clutching his arms around himself and shaking with terror. Something’s _ really really _ wrong with Pat and he’s sick and now he’s on the floor writhing but not _ talking _and god knows what these two strangers are going to do— 

“Hey there,” the guy says gently, and when he puts his hand on Brian’s shoulder he flinches back. “No one’s hurting anyone, okay? Let’s go get you some tea. Or coffee? Water?” 

“We're, we're just—huh?” 

“It’s all okay. Your friend’ll be okay. Did he hurt ya? He didn’t mean to. Just gotta whiff of the wrong plant, it hits some folk that way. I’ll explain.” 

This makes no sense, but Brian just lets it wash over him, lets his sweat start to cool and his breathing recenter. “Oh-okay. Tea’d be...be good.” 

“D’ya want Greg to bring your friend along?” the guy says, gesturing with his thumb. “Or if you’d rather, we can set him up in the cellar to cool down whi—” 

“_Please _let him stay with me,” Brian chokes out. “Please.” 

“All righty. Let’s reconvene in the morning room, then.” The guy gives a nod, and with a light touch guides Brian the right way. Greg gets a hand under Pat’s armpits, and drags him after. 

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##  **around 8:00pm**

“Sorry I didn’t take you to dinner, first,” Pat mumbles, while they’re both eating pizza with practical haste. “Not much of a gentleman.” 

Brian snorts, chooses to take that as a joke. “I’m not old-fashioned, Pat Gill, I don’t have a gosh-darned checklist before you can get in my pants.” Pat flinches, at this, and Brian amends. “Sorry you got the short end of the stick. Drugged by a plant and forced to fuck out all my fantasies.” 

“Ha!” This is the right thing to say, because it makes Pat’s brow unfurrow, and it also happens to be true. “So I’m hearing that conservatory detour had an ulterior motive.” 

“I’m always angling for something,” Brian grins, and then hesitates. “But I—sorry—I don’t mean—I’m not asking for this to be a regular thing, or anything. I like getting fucked but it’s absolutely not a dealbreaker. If we don’t do that. If you don’t want that, uh, on the reg. You blow my world in every way—”

“No, I _ wanted _to,” Pat cuts in, turns, looks at Brian. His pupils are a little overwide, but as far as Brian can tell he’s not in the danger zone yet. “I just hadn’t ever done it before and I was—I guess, uh. In my own head about it. I dunno. I figured eventually I’d get my shit together—” he grimaces “—um. Yeah. Eventually I’d get brave enough and it’d be amazing. You’d make it amazing. I though I’d wait for you to ask and then confess to you that I’m a newb and you’d laugh at me and say you’d teach me how to use my dick.” 

He’s smiling sheepishly and Brian feels himself buzz a little with the heat of that compliment. “Wow. ...really? You’re not just saying that? ‘Cause you accidentally got signed up for the crash course?’

“I’m not just saying that,” he says and fixes Brian with sturdy eye contact. “I didn’t, uh, figure it would go like _ this _. But fuck. Brian. If my dick doesn’t fall off after today I’m gonna want to do this again.” 

Brian feels so brightly happy he knows his face might be dangerously close to a smirk. Ah well. Might as well lean in. “Let’s get some more good times in before your dick turns into a pumpkin at midnight,” he snuggles into Pat’s chest. “And let’s adjust the plan. I think I don’t need to tie you back up, okay? I think we’re good now.” 

Pat tenses. “What if I hurt you. I don’t think it, uh, look, I’m bigger than you, I can definitely—”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Brian yawns, waves a hand. “I got dancer reflexes, baybee. And—at the risk of—okay I’m gonna sound like a slut if I say _ I’m sure I can take it _ but uh, if the shoe fits…”

“Bri, what if I—I could really—at some point you have to _ sleep _—”

“Trust me, Pat,” Brian tilts himself back languidly, draws a hand up his chest. “You’ve fucked me so good I’m _ definitely _gonna be loose for you. I bet you could get your goddamn fist in me right now.” 

“_Jesus_,” Pat colors. “Please don’t give me any ideas.” 

Brian grins. “Oh, you like that one?”

“_Please _ not while I’m on this hell plant drug, I don’t even— _uck_—who knows what I’ll want when I’m—like that…” 

“ ‘mpretty sure you’re mostly just gonna want your dick in me, hottie,” Brian shrugs. “But you can get creative if you want.” He sprawls back, lets the tingle of pleasure build and release in his body as he decides what next to say. “You can do whatever you want with me, all night.” 

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##  _3:15pm_

With chamomile tea pressed into his trembling hands, Brian gets..something like an explanation. That flower—that one that Pat smelled— 

He glances at Pat, who’s on the ground, curled in the fetal position and groaning in frustration. Brian couldn’t bear for them to not be touching, but it seems Pat has it worse—he’s snapping his hips uselessly and trying to hump Brian’s ankle with absolutely no success. It’s crazy, and his eyes are wild and black and thoughtless, and the explanation that he got poisoned by some kind of sex plant is horrifying, but not as horrifying as their friendly, soft-spoken offer to chain Pat up in the basement for a night or two until he’s better. 

“I’m not—can’t I just take him to a hospital?” Brian says weakly, because this plant guy—Arthur—seems nice enough but he’s not a friggin' doctor. “What if he’s really got something wrong? Just to be safe.” 

Arthur frowns, looks Brian up and down. “D’you have a flatbed?” 

“Huh? No?” 

“Hmm,” the guy taps his chin. “I’m not keen to send you off with him in the seat next to you, Brian. The hospital’s _ quite _a drive, more’n’an hour, ‘n’ if he gets himself free halfway there he’s not gonna worry much about road safety, yhear? He could hurt ya.” 

Brian grimaces, because on the one hand this sounds bonkers...and on the other hand...considering the afternoon he’s just had. 

“We’ve had this happen before. No one’s ever been out of it for longer’n’a day. Just let us put him up downstairs, all right? He just needs a few hours to sleep it off. I can set him up with a cot. He’ll rub one out a few times, sure, but that’ll be all right.” 

Pat blushes red, even amidst his twitching and fighting, and Brian knows that something of him is still in there. 

“No,” Brian shakes his head sharp. He’s not leaving Pat tied up in the cellar with strangers_, _ even if they are being oddly chill about the fact that he’s on the floor _ licking Brian’s leg what the hell Pat_. “I’m not leaving him. He’s not gonna hurt me.” 

“He can’t help it, son,” the guy tsks, and as if to illustrate this statement he takes his boot and sticks it between Pat’s legs. Pat moans and presses into him like a dog in heat, and it startles Brian so bad he jumps up, almost sets his teacup flying, sends hot water all down his chest. 

“Don’t _ do _that,” he barks, pushes the guy away. “Don’t you—stop!” 

Arthur sighs, runs a hand through his hair, but backs off. “Kid, you gotta let him get off somehow. He’ll be screaming ‘fore long if you don’t. If you don’t wanna see your friend like this why don’t you let me and Greg handle it and you can come back in the morn—”

“_No_. Look, I’m—we’re dating, okay? It’s not like I’ve never seen his—” he stops. “Can you just give us a minute? I gotta...we gotta figure out what to do.” 

“Sure thing,” the guy shrugs, and moves away with a look that is sort of paternal, and Brian’s not sure whether to feel creeped out or to appreciate it. “I’ll knock before I come back in, y’hear?” 

“Yes, thank you,” Brian gets out, clipped. He feels annoyed, exhausted, layered on top of the worry. He just wants out of here. It does seem plausible that driving might be unsafe, though. Pat’s lost in something physical, pent-up, trying hard to curl himself around Brian and fighting his bindings too hard. 

Briancloses his eyes, whispers, “Sorry Pat,” and reaches down to get a hand in Pat’s pants to try, uh, a preliminary experiment. God, he’s _ so hard. _Whimpering like Brian has been teasing him for hours, growling and grinding on anything he’s allowed to reach. It’s fucking scary, and worse, the scared part of Brian’s brain lives right next to the part that thinks it’s kind of hot. 

He’s never seen Pat desperate before. Pat’s always an utter gentleman. 

He jerks Pat off, not even really with any conscious motion, just gives him enough pressure and grip that Pat can thrust and come all over himself with a cry. As soon as it happens, he stills, and Brian jumps to untie him, cuts through the cord with his Swiss army knife and rubs at the skin where the lines are red. 

“Shhh, shhh, you’re all right, it’s okay, I’m here Pat,” he murmurs, and lets Pat hiccup out some tears, and stagger, shaking, first to hands and knees and then to stumbling-standing, lurching away. At first Brian thinks he’s headed for the door, to flee—but no, he’s just reaching to press against a wall, hide his face as if he can’t bear it. 

It’s only right to let him cry this out in privacy, but Brian worries that he will—that they can’t—that maybe they don’t have that luxury. He crowds up close to where Pat’s leaning, panting, wet-cheeked with the leak of embarrassed tears and trembling. 

“Brian I—I’m sorry please just—you can—leave me here—”

“What the _ hell _ Pat Gill I am not leaving you alone here in the basement with some _ freaks _who have_ fuck plants, _” Brian says and yep, yep that voice is a little hysterical. Oops.

“You have to. You _ have _ to. What if I hurt you? I still want to— _ god _ Brian I want you so bad—it’s _ sick _—”

“It’s not sick,” Brian shakes his head firmly, reaches out. Pat flinches away like he’s an explosion, turns his body into the wall, curls to protect his vital parts. “I’m very sexy, I get it.” 

“Ha!” Pat laughs desperately, into the dust, and breathes it, and sneezes. “Brian I. I can’t control my—I’m gonna—”

Brian hugs him, because it sounds like he’s crying, and also like he’s hungry, desperate, dying to be touched, and Brian can get one loose arm around him while the other yelps for hotels. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Brian declares, flipping through options. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. we’re gonna get out of this hell place, and get a room at this like, motel six, and see if you feel better, and if you don’t we’re going to the friggin’ hospital because I don’t trust the medical opinion of these—”

“Brian.” Pat flips around in Brian’s grip, and his muscles are tight, like he’s holding himself back from pushing, grabbing. He just presses his back to the wall where he was facing and parts his lips slightly and looks needy. “You shouldn’t be alone with me.” 

He brushes Pat’s hair back, and kisses up meaningfully into his mouth. “I’ll take some precautions. you...you seem okay right now?” 

“For…now” he grunts. “It’s getting—I don’t—who knows...how long…” 

Brian’s scared, but sometimes fear makes him bold, and he sticks a hand straight into Pat’s pants, which are damp and sticky. But he’s hard again, so hard, and whimpers in desperation immediately. 

“Let’s see if I can buy us long enough to check in, yeah?” Brian grins, the slightly-manic grin he gets when things are out of control. “Or at least, enough to get to the car. I’ll jerk you off again before we go in.”

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##  _3:45pm_

Pat’s shaking as they hustle into the room—it’s just a cheap motel, thin-walled and yellow-grey, but actually clean enough. He’s stripping his clothes before anything else, spitting out a jerky sentence: “Uh. Just. Let me try to shower. Okay? Just...just stay out here and I’ll. Uh. Jerk off and come to bed.”

Brian nods, shoots finger guns. “I’ll get the luggage.” 

Everything they need is in two little bags, which Brian drags in and drops off to the side. On second thought, he strips too, down to an undershirt and boxer-briefs. He’s not here to make this harder than it has to be. He gets out lube, and lays it on the bed, a little nervous that it’s only travel-size. They’ll have to make do. 

He puts the ropes on the bed, too, which Pat insisted on. They were in the rental emergency kit, maybe for lashing stuff to the roof. They don’t look...Brian doesn’t think they’ll be _ comfy _. He doesn’t want to tie Pat down but he figures Pat’ll insist. And really, there’s something—well. Brian’s not sure what he wants. 

Pat moans. It’s easy to hear, through the wall. 

“Are you okay?” Brian calls.

“You should…_ go. _” comes Pat’s voice, shaky-faint. The water’s still on. There’s splashy sounds of scrambling. “I can’t—I should...” 

“Nah, c’mon, daddy,” Brian taunts, braver than he feels. “I’m ready for you.”

He is...categorically _ not _ . With fumbling fingers he uncaps the lube, gets a spurt of it out on his hand. Maybe he should join Pat in the shower, that’s probably the tidiest way, but it’s water-based and _ that’s _not ideal, letting any chance at easy lubrication wash down the drain… 

he’s tense all through his shoulders, but jams a hand behind him anyway, he needs to get on with it, get in a finger quickly so he can move on to two—

The bathroom door slams open. Pat, who’s wet all over and buck naked, stumbles out, wide-eyed and moving strangely. Predatory. Hmm. There's not gonna be time for this. Better to distract him, get him off a different way, then reconvene. Gosh, how many times can Pat even physically come? 

Pat closes the distance, fast. His grip pins Brian’s arm to his body, snakes around to yank the hair at the nape of his neck, force his head up. There's a real Castlevania roleplay thing going on here that Brian can fucking get into. 

“Mark me up,” Brian breathes, but Pat’s already doing it, sucking hard into the furrow of skin at Brian’s clavicle with little regard for his teeth. 

“Mmhnm.” The sound Pat makes is a whimper, really, a pitiful murmur. 

“Fuck me up right,” he goads again. “Get your energy out.” 

Pat nearly _ throws _ Brian on the bed and curls around him, lapping at his skin and grinding and when Brian wriggles his arm free to pull his shirt off Pat slams it down, gripping hard enough to hurt. Shit, Pat's clever, how he uses his body. So far they haven't really explored, uh, sexy wrestling, have played more with Pat's flexibility than his wiry strength. But lord it's hot, and Brian's an idiot, and he got himself straight into this mess so thank heavens he at least he knows how to yes-and.

“Sit on my face, Pat. Please, I—”

before he can finish the thought, the slim strong legs are straddling him, hands and ankles hitched just-so to pin him down quite helpless. Pat’s dripping, but doesn’t stop to tidy himself up, nothing cute or sexy, just forces his cock into Brian’s mouth with little fanfare. 

It’s wet and clean and slightly soapy, and Brian goes right to town, swirling, suckling. There’s not a lot he can do here to adjust the pace. The angle’s not _ bad _ , more suited for sloppy cock worship than ruthless throat fucking. He can just slobber at the head and suck and flick his tongue, and the sounds of satisfaction Pat makes are gratifying, even if they're not punctuated with their usual litany of curses and compliments. Brian's sucked Pat's gorgeous dick enough times that he can imagine the soundtrack in his head, he knows it'd be something like _fuck, fuck, shit that's good, god, you're so good to me, fuck, you're so hot, holy christ it's good, mmm, please, _et cetera. 

Brian’s never failed to entertain somebody with his mouth before—

actually no, that’s a _ terrible _lie, he’s been pelted with pillows so many times for so many warbling goofy improvised songs—

but look, okay, he’s good at sucking cock. So when Pat pulls away, jerks out of reach, he’s surprised. 

Things turn quick, after that. Pat’s just so...so dang _ athletic _ ; you wouldn’t think of it to look at him, rail-thin and nerdy and pale and constantly slouching, but that boy has arms for days and strength in them, knows how to use them. Brian knows this. They’ve wrestled before, for funsies, but this is—

different, different. Not fun. The brutal twisting way Pat forces his wrist back and around, and also his elbow and his shoulder and his whole back, _ hoo_, his whole _ self _better go with it otherwise something’s gonna break— 

and then he’s on his belly with a knee in his back and Pat ripping at his boxers and well. Fuck. Are they really—

is this—

Brian takes a breath, buries his face in the pillow below him, tries to remember how much he _ wants _this. How many times he’s friggin’ fantasized about Pat fucking him, taking him into a broom closet at work and just straight fucking his shit right up, or even better, working him up at home, tying him up and dirty-talking at him with a wicked chuckle, sliding fingers into him slow— 

well _ that’s _ not happening today. Words are beyond Pat, right now, but the blunt wet head of his cock is jutting up against Brian rudely. Oh, he’s about to get fucked real good, and he wants to enjoy it, goddammit. 

He curls like a spring, draws in and away, angling the tension, the flex of his body to get away from Pat for just a friggin’ second so he can reach down, ease into himself, prep a little, thanks much. 

Pat’s not fucking having that, though. He growlsand twists brutally and his hands pinch and bruise at Brian’s hip and ow ow _ ow _that’s gonna look cool tomorrow, delicious, hot, blooming purple and r-red and, and—

“Pat,” he sighs in loud and pointless exasperation. “Please just let me finger myself for like a _ second _ , c’mon.” It’s hard to beg for mercy when you’re being gripped and dragged, so swift it stings the coarse blanket against Brian’s chest. “Put the _ brakes _on.” 

He might as well have said nothing at all, for how Pat yanks him without pause or response, pulls him to the edge of the bed so his legs hang off and can be easily pinned by Pat’s knees. His hands are everywhere, gripping and grabbing, hands that Brian knows would never _ ever _ever hurt him, f-for sure, of course, though they can find easy purchase on his wrist or shoulder or hip or wherever they please. 

It’s okay. It’s _ okay _. Brian buries his face nose-down and takes a shuddering breath and tries hard to relax—

one hand lets go of him, probably to wrap around Pat’s cock, to line him up. The other palm presses down at the small of Brian’s back, not quite so bruising but a warning. _ Don’t move. _Brian obeys Pat’s body, since he’s not sure what’s in Pat’s mind right now. If anything. 

He should be, he should be relaxing but he finds he’s tense. He’s doing this exactly wrong. He needs to take six deep breaths and feel the—

but he’s not got _ time _— 

he can hear Pat breathing heavy. The sounds are complex. Panting, whining. The slick ugly sound of him jerking his cock— 

not ugly, not ugly, there’s nothing ugly about Pat, he’s _ beautiful _—

the sound of him gasping Brian’s name—

his name! _ “Brian! _”

“...yeah?”

“I said _ hand me the lube _ for the love of Christ.” 

Brian laughs rather hysterically and sweeps his arms to find where it’s gone. If it’s fallen off the bed— 

but no, no, good luck follows bad, it’s just among the bedsheets and easily pushed back towards Pat. “So glad to know Christ approves.” 

“Jesus….created this fucking….hell plant….” Pat’s blaspheming is punctuated by panting, the sound of him slicking himself generously, the cold pull of his fingers up the cleft of Brian’s ass. As he probes, he’s shaking slightly—not _ trembling _, no, Brian gets the sense he’s jerking himself furiously, short hard rhythmic motions, maybe a crushing grip. “....so it’s his own….damn fault….”

“If they have these plants in hell at least they have fun down there,” Brian muses in a voice that is quite possibly within his normal octave. “I thought hell was a strictly no-orgasm zone, tee-bee-aitch.” 

“Maybe the devil has a sense of humor,” Pat says darkly, as his finger breaches Brian’s body. He’s—it’s quite gentle, actually. Pat’s fingers are slim and beautiful, and it’s beautiful to hear his voice, however tortured, and Brian could cry at how nice it is when Pat curls into him. He does cry, actually. His tears find hotel pillows; his feet find enough purchase on the cheap carpet, steady himself, push his hips up for a better angle to welcome a second fingertip. 

“I’m gonna fucking die if I don’t get my cock in you.” Pat’s matter-of-fact delivery is—well, hard to know how honest, but it’s _ hot _ , still, despite it all. “So _ please _ fucking tell me—when—if you’re ready—I don’t know how long I can…” 

“Getting there!” Brian squeaks, and relaxes, and muscles himself through terror onward to desire, and pushes back his hair from his face. “If you go _ slow_, papi.” 

“_God._” Pat chokes like he’s being asked to perform self-surgery. “I’ll fucking _ try_, Brian.” 

“Not all slow,” Brian amends, while Pat lines up and presses close again. “Just push in and hold it there, for a second. Just a few seconds, okay? So I can get used to you.” 

“Okay,” Pat kind of says, kind of just makes a noise, a garbled preamble to the slow slide of his cock. He’s _ warm _and wide and it stretches painfully, but he’s also smooth and careful and listening, he’s listening when Brian gasps because he tries his fucking hardest to stop. Doesn’t quite, doesn’t quite pause, a nice rolling glide past a stop sign that only an asshole cop would catch you for. Brian chuckles as he bottoms out, and it catches the sound he makes, softens it a bit. 

It’s fucking _ hard _ for Pat to wait, Brian knows that, can feel it in the death-grip Pat has on his waist, like he’s transmitting all his transformed desire into his fingertips. They’re quite powerful enough on their own, god, he’s going to have fingermarks _ everywhere _tomorrow. 

Yeah, and he’s a little freak. He likes to imagine that. Every long second he feels his body yield and the stacked tinder collapses into flame. 

“Good. You can move—”

he barely finishes the sentence before Pat _ is_, moving in short jerky bursts that snap their bodies together, tear grunts from Pat and yelps from Brian such that their neighbors would _ surely _ complain. If they had any. But they don’t, Brian’s fairly sure, and he’ll yelp as loud as he likes, thank you, feral yelps of pain and pleasure that he can at least tilt in the right direction, if he hitches up on a toe and shifts the angle a bit. _ Gosh— _

it’s just like he imagined, and it’s not. His mind is quickly re-imagining, rearranging the way he thought this might go, how it’s going, how it’s gone. He never thought they’d fuck in _ Missouri _, for one. But his wild imaginings did capture something, of what it would be like, to feel Pat bending over him, dripping with sweat and effort, sounding out the very limits of what Brian could take and making him take just a little bit more.

“I’m gonna come,” Pat gasps in his ear, in a voice that isn’t entirely his own. 

Brian laughs, not hysterical this time, just an unstifle-able bark. “Whaddaya want _ me _ to do about it?” He’s slammed face down and Pat’s got both his wrists, there is _ nowhere _he is going that pat doesn’t want him. 

“_ Take _it,” Pat growls, and grips, and it’s actually very good, how much he’s bending over Brian, how much of their bodies he’s pressing together while heaving with his asymmetric thrusts. 

A moan escapes, while Brian _ takes it _ , a keening gash of sound, but it’s good, it’s good, _ so good daddy give it to me just like that _—

a litany of desire that gives way to soothing as Pat rolls off him, buries his face into Brian’s shoulder. 

“Did I hurt you,” he gasps, and it’s hard to tell why it sounds so jagged, tiredness or stifled tears.

“No, no, Pat I’m fine,” Brian curls too, turns to face Patrick, take him in his arms. “That was good I think. You were way mor—”

“That wasn’t _ good _, Brian,” Pat bites, and it rebounds into Brian’s chest. “I couldn’t fucking stop myself. That was the fucking furthest from good.” 

Brian can feel a part of himself wanting to shrink at that, to let the shame and grief hit him hard until he cries, until his boyfriend takes it back, that this wasn’t perfect, that it wasn’t good. But he doesn’t say _ well it really seemed like you enjoyed yourself _ or say _ it was good for me, Pat _ or even _ how could you say something like that. _Because they can’t, he can’t, he can’t be squabbling right now. Pat needs him. 

“What do you think we should do,” he says, soft and even, as normal as he can. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m fine. What should we do?” 

“Get out of here,” Pat snaps, then pauses, clarifies. “You should. Get the fuck away from me.” 

Brian snorts, as if this is the silliest suggestion in the world. “Fuck that. I’m not leaving. What if you just wander out of here and start hitting on strangers?” 

Pat shudders. He’s so sweaty, under Brian’s fingertips. Shower-damp, too, but Brian thinks he can tell the beads of sweat standing out. “Can you tie me up.” 

“Fine,” Brian acquiesces, touches pat’s face. “But I’m not leaving.” 

“Fine,” Pat grits out, perhaps mostly because he doesn’t have time to argue. “Do it quick.”

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

##  **9:45pm**

The period between Pat’s... uh, ‘episodes…lengthens gradually, maybe calmed by the easy access to Brian’s body. He insists on giving Brian a massage, but also just touching, kissing him all over, holding him, apologizing warm against his skin and sliding his tongue and fingertips along Brian’s flaccid cock. 

(Look, _ Brian’s _ not imbued with magic plant viagra; after he comes he is fucking _ definitely _done for the night and can just appreciate Pat’s hands for the artistry they are. They touch everywhere with long-fingered strength and infinite care.)

Whenever Pat feels overwhelmed, burns with the spark of desire again, he tenses against Brian and asks, _ okay? _ and Brian nods and hums and angles his back so Pat can feed his cock into him and whisper gently _ shhh, shh, it’s all right _ into the space behind Brian’s ear.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

##  **3:45am**

It’s cold, when Brian wakes up—

wakes up so smoothly that he can’t even tell if he was really asleep, wakes up with only an intake of breath, a comma, a shift of fuzzy awareness that leaves unaddressed what is real and what is only a strange dream-creation—

it’s cold, which is strange, Brian _ never _falls asleep without a heavy barrier of covers that keeps him stuffy and grounded, weighted down in oppressive comfort. This time he must have slipped into sleep accidentally, if he even was sleeping at all, and wasn’t just spacing out for half-a-second. 

Pat is—

close, the warm human smell of him, the press of his bony shin, the gristle-rough beard scruff and soft waves of hair. Patrick’s asleep, he can tell from the smooth breathing, the laxity of his limbs—he has an arm around Brian but it’s not curled, not holding or gripping, just a limp exhausted point of contact. He seems like he’s finally getting some rest, thank god. He’s been a mess. A gorgeous mess, to be sure, sweaty and sweet and needy by turns…the fierceness eventually bled out of him, settled into only hungry grasping and short panting breaths and a constant whispered litany of _ thank you, thank you, you’re fucking amazing, god, I love you. _

Brian tries to freeze the spark that lit in him, the little hopeful heart-skip. Pat’s not in his right mind quite yet. He’s not as lovey-dovey as Brian, not as quick to jump in something with his whole heart—

—or is, maybe, and is just sneaky-good at hiding it— 

Brian wonders how he would have felt, if their positions were switched. If in this weird nightmare, it’d been _ Brian _ who sniffed a strange plant and could only be sated with Pat’s body. He feels reasonably sure Pat would have opened up to him in a heartbeat, let him have anything he wanted. Maybe he would’ve pinned Brian down in a wrestling hold and laughed at his pathetic thrusting, his keens of need. Maybe he would have tucked his tongue in the corner of his mouth, and smirked, and said _ guess we’re finding out if I’m vers today, then. _ Maybe he would have blinked and smiled, let a smile bloom across his face all big and beautiful if Brian panted and moaned and said _ I love you _as if the truth was finally ripped out of him by torture— 

maybe he would have bent over on all fours and taken it, taken Brian’s cock so quick and smooth and jerked his head back with the feel of it—

“Hey,” Pat murmurs. His eyes are cracked open, maybe. They’re too close and it’s too dim for Brian to tell. “You’re not sleeping.” 

“Neither are you,” Brian turns. 

“You’re wiggling.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Yeah-huh. You ‘kay?” 

“ ‘mgood, Pat Gill. D’you need me?” 

“No,” Pat says, and half-laughs. “I mean, yes, but not like that. I think I’m…” he hesitates, maybe feeling out the sensations in his body. “Mostly back to normal. Or something. I don’t know.” 

“Hallelujah,” Brian sighs, and cuddles closer to steal under Pat’s covers. How’d he get so many of them, anyhow. “They said it would wear off. The plant pervert guys. They said. But maybe we could go to an urgentcare tomorrow? Get them to check you out?”

“Brian. If you think I’m going to try to explain this to a doctor—” 

“I could explain it for you,” Brian mumbles into Pat’s chest, hugs tight. “I say embarrassing shit all the time. I can tell them you don’t speak English.” 

Pat snorts. “I’m fine. I think. Let’s just...let’s see, okay? I’ll probably be—_ Brian. _” 

“...what?”

“Do you really have a _ boner _right now?” 

“Shut _ up _ I was thinking about _ you _you meanie!”

“Brian.” 

“Look—oh, don’t look at me like that, Patrick, I can’t see you but I know how you’re looking at me—” 

He’s grinning, Brian can feel that, laughing and grinning when Brian covers his face in kisses to shut him up. “Do you want help with that, then.” 

“Just let me jerk off in peace you flower freak I was thinking of _ nice peaceful sleepy horny thoughts _.” 

“Like what? What _ haven’t _we done today?” 

“What about _ shutting you up with my dick oh my gosh _.” 

Pat laughs, and curls a long arm under him, around, the press of his wrist against the point of Brian’s hip an anchor as he draws his fingers slowly up Brian’s thigh, teasing. “I mean, I’m down for that. Is that really what you want?” 

That pulls something in Brian’s chest, intrigued, but feather-light. Not now. But maybe. One day.

“Nah. I’m so _ tired. _Just gonna jerk off and go back to sleep. Until you need me.” 

“Mm,” Pat hums comfortingly where his lips find Brian’s temple. “Nope. I’ll just jerk off with you, in case. Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

Brian doesn’t blush, not really, but it still feels like the back of his neck gets warm, and he pauses for a smidge too long. 

“Unless you don’t want to,” Pat course-corrects, a delicate hand on the rudder. “It’s okay.” 

“Okay but don’t take this the wrong way…‘cause it’s terrible that it happened to you—but also it’s, um—well it’s, Iwasthinkingaboutwhatifitwereme, who uh, uh, who t-touched the plant?” 

Pat’s got a hand on Brian’s belly now, wrapped under him sneakily to knead the space above his dick. “Oh?” he says, gives Brian just enough rope to hang himself. 

“Yeah. Uh not that um. I’d _ actually _like that. But just yknow. How you’d handle it if I was, was…” 

“Not as well as you,” Pat says, softly, somewhat serious. “But I’d try my best.” 

It’s a funny way to get off, aching from tiredness and Pat’s cock, burying his embarrassed face in Pat’s hair while he nonetheless tries to drag out some features of his fantasy for their mutual enjoyment. Brian runs a hand across Pat’s slim chest, teasing his nipples, tugging the hair until he whimpers. He makes his voice soft and low and really goes full _ hey I bet I could be a phone sex operator _on the task. Pat comes first, because of course he does, but Brian doesn’t stop talking, just writhes in pleasure and jerks harder and messily spills his hopes and dreams in breathy gasps of fantasy. 

Pat holds him gently, after, refuses to let him get up and clean, _ no, no, you’re gonna conk out in like three seconds, just let me do it. _Brian’s not usually a quick or heavy sleeper but tonight he...he might manage it. 

“Love you, Pat,” he says, when he’s drowsy enough that he has plausible deniability. 

“Love you too,” Pat responds immediately, easy as pie. 

“That one counts,” Brian mumbles to himself. “ ‘Kay?”

“...oh, okay?” Hesitance, confusion, but Pat musters his bravery quickly, almost too fast for Brian to think. “Was there...something that didn’t count?” 

“....uh. Yeah, dude. About four hours ago you said _ I fucking love your tight little ass—” _

“Jesus!”

“—and I just wanted to know if you _ meant _it.” 

Pat coughs. “Well then. I fucking love your tight little ass, Brian David Gilbert,” he’s so deadpan it’s so _ Pat, _“and would like to sincerely apologize for the things I have been doing to it.” 

“Nerd,” Brian grins, and nuzzles down to sleep.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [that hungers and lusts and drives the creature relentlessly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23878513) by [Trigonometrical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical)


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